The Mysterious Gobstones Club
by Lady Hallen
Summary: Harry is invited in the Gobstones Club, a club that has, apparently, not invited anyone else since Albus Dumbledore.


**The Mysterious Gobstones Club**

 **.**

* * *

It wasn't enough that Harry was a wizard and the 'apparent' savior of the wizarding world.

He had to go out and socialize.

The letter in thick parchment, gilded with silver and its very ink dusted with gold gave Harry some idea of the importance of the people inviting him. After all, the economy in Wizarding Britain was currently shit and not everyone outside the country could afford the gold, the silver, or the thick Ivory parchment telling him to use the portkey at precisely 6 PM.

The paranoid part of him that had suffered through being hunted and Undesirable Number One said to bring back-up portkey's and extra wands, along with Hermione's beaded bag. The less paranoid part of him – suspiciously like Hermione – poked at the invitation for some clues.

It was rather futile, but the words were ambiguous and the invitation itself seemingly innocent. It was like the person writing it was adept at having their words decoded.

"Alright, I'm going," he told Kreacher, who was making no effort to mask his hovering. "But you better tell everybody where I'm going in case I don't come back before twelve."

Kreacher just stared at Harry with hands on his hips, unimpressed with his tone. "If Master Harry goes to scary party, Master Harry can always call Kreacher."

Harry blinked at the elf, feeling bemused. "Oh, right. There's that too. Of course, Kreacher."

The house-elf snorted and popped away, bringing with him the remnants of Harry's breakfast.

Harry shook his head and memorized the text. He had until 6 in the evening to find out everything about the Gobstones Club.

.

* * *

.

"The Gobstones Club?" Hermione clarified, blinking and yawning, ink staining her hands. "They're rather obscure. I mean, a lot of people want to join, but it's mostly by invitation only. The last time I heard one invite was for Professor Flitwick and Professor Dumbledore."

"Isn't it a game?" he asked. "I mean, there's a Gobstones game, right?"

Hermione waved a hand and a handbook floated down the shelf. "It's actually the game that got named after the club. Sort of how everyone imagined it, you know? They can't all be talking to each other drinking tea. So they invented the Gobstones game so that it would make it less….mysterious, you know?"

That…actually made a lot of sense. Now, if only people would make fun of Lucius Malfoy's Garden Party's then Harry would feel a lot better.

"So," he said, trying for nonchalant. "Would it surprise you if I say that I've gotten an invite?"

Hermione actually stopped summoning books to her workspace and _stared_.

.

* * *

.

Harry armed himself as subtle as possible while still appearing harmless.

He transfigured knives into pins and hid them in his mess of a hair. He wore dragon hide in patches under his clothes, mostly to protect his vital organs. His mokeskin pouch held his extra two portkey's and his signet ring hid three drops of Veritaserum.

All in all, he was a smidge bit more prepared for the meeting than for Voldemort but it doesn't account for how nervous he felt.

And then…

"Welcome, Mr. Potter," the small charms professor greeted him, eyes twinkling brightly. "You've accepted the invite. Good. Now she won't keep pestering me for stories about you."

What?

"Her who?" he had to ask, feeling a bit off-kilter.

"Me," a woman said, pushing into him like she had no understanding of personal space. "Call me Morgan."

Morgan, Harry realized. Looked a lot like Morgana le Fay in the Chocolate frog Cards. Actually, he realized further. Everyone in the room looked familiar by virtue of the Chocolate Frog Cards.

"Pleased to meet you," his mouth automatically said. "Err, I thought you were dead?"

She waved a hand. "Semantics. After a couple of centuries, everyone thinks you're dead. It's better to let them think that way."

That actually made sense, in a strange, roundabout way.

"So…this is a club full of dead people?" he said, just to clarify. "Or 'supposed' to be dead people?"

A nearby gentleman snickered. "Well," he said. " _Circumstances_ , you know? We just got together because it gets lonely, after a couple of years by yourself without a familiar face in sight. Nicky over there is fortunate, he's got a wife. Call me Sal."

Harry shook his hand and in the middle of the handshake, realized he was _touching_ Salazar Slytherin.

"Companionship?" he repeated.

A plump, kind eyed lady bustled over, pushing aside everybody else. "Oh, you poor dear. Let's get a pint in you and you'll feel better."

"Immortality's not all it's cracked up to be, you know?" Slytherin continued, keeping pace and not at all fazed by the glare the lady shot at him. "And it's actually not that rare. I mean, I had an accident with poor Merdy and some potions with essence of Unicorns and now I can't age at all."

It took Harry a while to wrap his head around it.

"Wait, wait," he interrupted the brewing argument between the plump woman - Helga Hufflepuff and Slytherin. "I got invited because I've gone and made myself immortal now?"

Both of them gave him looks of immense sympathy. They didn't even say anything else, giving him time to absorb things. Harry wanted to scream. Or have a firewhisky.

"It isn't that rare stopping the aging process," Hufflepuff said gently, eyes kind. "You've done and given it to yourself – and so innocently too! Some don't last long, committing suicide and all that. But we're here for…a support group, of some sorts."

They made him turn and watch a sad looking man, three feet into intoxication and obviously not stopping there.

"That there is Merlin," and Harry had to hold back his disbelieving gasp. "He's been like that for a while now, ever since he's had an epiphany and realized he's been in love with darling Arthur. Poor chap."

Harry blinked rapidly, trying to come to terms to the fact that Merlin was in fact still alive, was a young man without a beard or pointy hat, and likely suffered from alcoholism.

"How long ago was his epiphany?" he had to ask.

Hufflepuff shrugged. "Around the turn of the century, a while back, so it's been more or less a hundred years of him not being sober. It's an exercise and a half, keeping the liquor stocked, you know? His liver will get back at him for that later. Thankfully, Arthur's the sort that's prophesied to come back, so he'll recover. Hopefully."

Despite how nonchalant they both spoke about it, Harry eventually realized that both of them understood. They understood so deeply that if they ever got serious, no alcohol in the world could ever help them. After all, it didn't escape his attention that Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw weren't mentioned at all, aside from those brief mentions.

"That there is Vivianne," Slytherin pointed out. "Keeper of Swords. You ought to remember that. Some chaps here are a bit sensitive about their titles."

Harry could take note that there were a lot of the older crowd than the younger ones and he mentioned that to the founders.

Slytherin laughed. "It was more common in those days," he said. "You wouldn't believe the number of potions accidents resulted in Immortality. Of course, not everyone survived. Immortal doesn't mean Invulnerable. Though that poor Scamander lad to your left is Invulnerable as well. His pet phoenix did something to him and now he just bursts into flames once in a while."

A red haired man strolled over at that point, comfortably stuck appearing in his thirties. "You're one of the unfortunate sort, you know," he said mysteriously, before wandering away.

Both of them rolled their eyes to Harry's confusion.

"That was Nick. One of those rare ones that made themselves Immortal deliberately. Him and his wife."

The understanding hit Harry in another three beats. Nicholas Flamel.

"Wait, that was Nicholas Flamel?" he breathed. "I thought I killed him when I was eleven."

At their inquisitive look, he explained his first year. Hufflepuff was indignant on his behalf while Slytherin just looked sad.

"Godric would have loved you," he sighed.

Hufflepuff ordered a pint and the three of them drank to missing friends.

.

* * *

.

It took three more years for Harry to understand what Nicholas Flamel meant, of him being unfortunate.

Wounds that he got during raids for rogue Death Eaters healed fast and it wasn't until one of them got a muggle bomb that he realized that he simply wasn't a fast healer.

After he apparated out of St. Mungos, he dragged himself to the Gobstones Club and ordered a pint.

As always, Hufflepuff was there and she caught the despair in his face and ordered him a special. He woke up with a splitting headache and the morbidly amused thought that invulnerability didn't sound so bad in the face of hangovers that vanished within twenty breaths.

Ginny was understanding and Hermione was distraught. Ron just gave him a hug and Harry felt a bit better.

"Wait a few more years and you'll feel worse," Merlin said to him in the rare moments that he wasn't trying to drown himself in his mug. "Speaking from experience."

Yeah, Merlin was an asshole.

It wasn't all bad though. There were days where no one was being an alcoholic, where people cracked open their minds and magical theory got bounced back and forth so fast that Harry got a whiplash.

Merlin and Salazar liked getting into screaming matches, what with their temperaments being alike (both of them Slytherins, you know?) and Nicholas Flamel argued Alchemical Theory and could talk everybody down until the sun rose again (though Bridget Wenlock gave him a run for his money.) Helga and Morgana le Fay actually kept scorecards for it but both of them occasionally joined in the debate whenever it wandered into territory they knew. Scamander knew everything about any magical specie. Other Immortals wandered in and out and those were amusing and entertaining moments.

The one thing Harry got them all beat was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

It surprised him too, but the others, while occasionally helping out in the recent wizarding crisis, let most of their defense skills go. Merlin still dueled, but most of it was to release aggression and so as to give his poor liver a break. Slytherin preferred breeding snakes and getting them all to dance a waltz. Hufflepuff bartended.

Professor Flitwick, who was actually nine hundred, couldn't really drop by often since he still taught in Hogwarts. Harry got his story in one of those nights.

"I'm likely a legend among the goblins by now," he said wistfully. "My mother was a goblin princess, my father a wizard. I was an abomination. But what I suffered through…they're singing me some sonnets now."

Some of the others didn't say anything about how they got to be immortal. In direct contrast, _everyone_ knew how Harry got his.

The three Hollows, while legendary, were very annoying. They _preened_ whenever someone told the story, like children getting attention.

Harry couldn't even leave them at home because they tended to follow him around for _hours_ afterwards. Like puppies. And just like puppies, irreproachable.

"One of these days, I'm going to get them a leash," Harry announced.

Slytherin ignored him while cooing at his snakes. Hufflepuff's large arms strained as she hefted up another keg, forgetting her wand for a moment. Merlin snored.

"Damn it, and you call this a support group?" he muttered without any real heat.

Among the thirty eccentric immortals, he felt right at home.


End file.
